Best Woollen Poems
“People of the world don’t look at themselves, and so they blame one another.”
- Rumi
He struggles to forget
that little boy anticipating his hero's return.
Staring out through a dark window,
wondering if sincere stars would show him a path home
but he was a man not worthy of such a reception.
Guess we don't get a choice,
where and to whom we are born.
The fatherless are like angels without feathers.
Left behind in the silence of sins.
In a lonely childhood playground,
collecting shards from broken glass swings.
His father was an illusive saviour to so many,
but played a villain against his growth.
How could one be so ignorant,
unaware a child needs a role model
to guide like a shepherd and his flock.
It's a struggle being a black sheep
in a white world of woollen hearts,
wandering like a lost soul searching to belong -
neglected by those too intoxicated with their vices.
Absent in adolescence,
life's lessons can be harsh,
with bitter blood bleeding in stubborn stains.
Now his ghost sings sad songs in absent dreams -
will a mind perpetually be plagued by visions?
People play the blame game,
pointing fingers in angry accusations,
about who hurt who,
but there are no victors in emotive diversions.
In misconception and misunderstanding,
the misunderstood leave without a goodbye.
Sometimes we don't get an opportunity to apologise,
so some voices are lost forever.
When there is nothing but silence,
a child gifts his seat on the throne of forgiveness -
because he is not a composition of parental chromosomes.
In his father's darkness, he may recite his lyrics,
as occasionally some sorrows resurface,
but his mother's compassionate tears
teach him how to spread light.
Everything he is today,
is inspired by not mirroring sins of his father's past.
Maybe that's why
he does not seek black horizons.
only sincere skies,
to observe the moon and stars.
Categories:
woollen, absence, child, father,
Form:
Free verse
Daffodils blooming,
Robins tweeting in trees,
Pollen is looming,
Sky falling like seas.
Atlanta’s warming -
Bless it’s peachy heart.
Isn’t it charming,
The chill will not part.
Can’t put my clothes away.
Winter keeps springing up.
My woollen socks sashay.
Taunt of sweaters: “Wuz up?”
Kids hop, skip and jump,
The joy of April,
Let go of the slump -
Could be they’re grateful…
Tender leaves unfold,
Sun is inviting,
But on the threshold,
The cold’s still biting.
Can’t put my clothes away
Winter keeps springing up
My woollen socks sashay
Taunt of sweaters: “Wuz up?”
4/8/2023
Categories:
woollen, humor, weather,
Form:
Lyric
I have nothing left
from when I was small.
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing at all.
I used to have shoes,
I once had a ball,
a bow that fit nicely
with my violin, small.
But now I have
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing at all.
But I have my memories,
my hopes and my dreams,
a life filled with friendship,
a heart that bursts at the seams.
A notebook with poems,
a bear and a doll,
a warm woollen jacket
with a fitting shawl.
Two mittens, a kitten,
I wore a hat in the fall...
But now I have
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing at all.
But I have my memories,
my hopes and my dreams,
a life filled with friendship,
a heart that bursts at the seams.
I have nothing left
from when I was small.
I used to have shoes,
I once had a ball,
a bow that fit nicely
with my violin, small.
A notebook with poems,
a bear and a doll,
a warm woollen jacket
with a fitting shawl.
Two mittens, a kitten,
I wore a hat in the fall...
But now I have
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing at all.
***
June 7, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
Categories:
woollen, childhood, dream, memory, song,
Form:
Lyric
Time moves on forward fast,
Like rapids hurtling unheedingly headlong
Towards a sheer deep cascade,
And plummet down below in a mighty roar
To flow relentlessly towards the infinite sea
Drifting straight into eternal oblivion.
Yet time can ne'er erase all memories,
And special ones will always linger
In the obscure corridors of my mind.
Hence I can never forget my dear,
The night that we first met.
Were not that night the stars conspiring
To throw a luminous light on our love?
Did not the twinkling stars shoot out their ways
In the clear expanse of nightly sky?
There under a lonely carob tree,
Where dry old leaves crackled
Under our woollen spreads,
You smiled graciously at me
And suddenly I knew
How eager was I for a love so true.
We were like two of those gems above,
Shooting their way across the skies.
And fate decreed that those two stars should meet
In an astral collision and fuse into a lasting blast.
Light sparkled above sublimely
An ethereal fireworks display,
That lasted for one long memorable moment,
But the light in our love will last
Until the end of our days.
Categories:
woollen, love, stars,
Form:
Free verse
I'm denuded from the extravagant
When the breeze, gliding icy scent
The season of valentine, birds chirping in their nest
Whence I'm stepping on paradise, on the cold cotton road
Now my costume is rustic, I'm listening music-folk
The bird of passage is starring, the sky so blue
The tall primeval wearing white coat greets "I welcome you"
And All around the camouflaged woods, covered in snow
Whence I'm walking in paradise, along the cold cotton road
I'm covered by woollen, I'm breathing vapor, so cold
It's quarter to ten, in the active city
My eyes are widened starring the angel's beauty
Since wondering mind acclaimed, wee lassie is so pretty
Whence I'm roaming in paradise, past the cold cotton road
I'm filled with joy, for the wonders I behold
A journey to paradise along the cold cotton road....
~Ashok Kumar Mishra
Categories:
woollen, analogy, appreciation, beauty, travel,
Form:
Tail-rhyme
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Three
Note: I do hope it’s clear to readers by now that – strictly speaking – in these ruba’iyat, I deviate from the original Persian medieval model, introduced by Rudaki in Ghazna, in that I do away with the 7-syllable hemistich and even the 14-syllable line of the couplet in order to create a longer more breathless ruba’i of my own. I adhere only to the intent and the tone at large. Apologies to Master Khayyam and his ilk.
Then as the dawn comes creeping through the dull cold listless haze
Shattered by nitpicking crows still in their tuxedo craze
Raucous squawks remind her to take that woollen mantle off
And stretch her legs just where her feet splintered the brittle glaze
Yet no one had ever seen her curious darling eyes
Her fronds of glaucous eye-lashes lie under thin ice
On some frosty winter morn gusts shake her locks threadbare loose
While some Himalayan pine bucked her will long bent with vice
No frog croaks nor cicadas cut into eerie silence
And the vapours of sticky unkempt limbs hang low and dense
The forsaken dame dreams on as on every December morn
No carbide stench of Bastille Day fireworks will choke her sense
On such lone nights when joggers dare not dig into her sides
She’d unclasp her python coils to search through shopping guides
For sherwanis and sarees to rouse Khayyam from his cup
While the svelte lass from Lahore wanders in her coils besides
Come winter! Come shine! This life’s nothing but a longing grind
Each in his own way dying to find his own special kind
If that happens, will this world be bereft of its only quest
For never does the search bring together two of the right kind!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Categories:
woollen, allegory,
Form:
Quatrain
I awoke one cheery summer morn
and watched the gentle breeze waft the fields of ripening corn
At once I saw the peasant girl off the common
through the branches of white cherry blossom
hurry along the cinder path up yonder hill
to labour long day at the woollen mill.
As pretty as a blessed angel
as sweet as honey from a bee
I an admirer from afar who hast never noticed me.
And in my lonely velvet covered poster bed
In placental home I idle the hours away
so wrapped up in warm repose
I dream about her every night and day.
How I long to stroke her long hair
and nuzzle my weary head at her
heaving bustling breast
and breath in her ripening alluring womeness.
By the old coach house inn
a field of purple heady lavender grows
a place where the butterflies flirt and dance
and on a star filled moonlit night
has seen many hastened romance
How I long to lay her down
and hold her in my gentle loving hands
and to the nightingales tune
explore the surface of soft ivory
illuminated by the moon..
I left a silver heart shaped locket
and a note wrapped in a posy
upon the path for her to find
I watched as she bent down
to pick it up and looked around
hiding behind the shuttered window blinds.
But she be only a lowly peasant girl
and I a man of nobility
it breaks my love struck heart to know
our love can never be.
Peter Dome.copyright.2014. Jan.
Categories:
woollen, beauty, desire, feelings, irony,
Form:
Romanticism
My husband is naughty a very naughty man
He throws down the newspaper on top of his beer can
He buys himself a sandwich in a cardboard box
And puts it in the laundry with his woollen socks.
He takes off his pyjamas and chucks them on the floor
He uses hankies frequently, so I have to buy some more.
He wants to have thick sauces on top of all his food.
And when he has a hypo his speech is very rude.
I gave him such a shock when I learned to curse and swear
But we really need to,as “eff off “is everywhere.
Why, even in the Bible there are some wicked words
I’ve not read it all yet, except Psalm 23rd.
I mean to finish reading it and then when I must die,
I’ll come onto a cloud and shout,Oh pi is in the sky.
For transcendental numbers give a hint divine.
Although you can get it better with a glass of dry, white wine.
My husband drinks draught guinness and then he fall asleep
He hollers and curses when the oven timer bleeps.
He eats a piece of kipper and cried out,Oh,dear God!
Nobody caught this b*gger with a fishing rod
He wants to move to Whitby and walk upon the sands
Sit in the audience and hear the big brass bands.
He wants to see the sun rise and to see it set…
So please send God some gelatine in case the air’s too wet!
Categories:
woollen, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
THE SANDS OF TIME
We stop-- unquestioning the expertise of our Game ranger
focused--examining sand and road for tracks
Uncomprehending, we ponder waiting for clues he may disclose –the light of dawn
Finally- three words:”Do you see?”
A revelation for him
We try to discern—revealing imprints on a dusty road
Man of few words, he speaks again: “footprints...not animal...fresh, close and recent”
Bushmen behind a thicket of shrub
Authentic and unique-nomads in the Namib Desert
“A family... hunting” he enlightens us further
We sit warm in blankets and woollen scarves
They crouch, short in stature, hiding—naked and shy
Feeling uncomfortable, inappropriately wrong somehow..
Binoculars and camera’s enforce the contrast-awkwardly
Our arrogance, whilst they are natural –reticently
Our Ranger details informative dialogue—geographical lectures
Nomadic in their habitual housing, hunting skills faultless...
Every imprint in the sand tells its own story
Many not wanting their legends uncovered
Invasion – intrusive, identities discovered
We linger no longer—luxurious Game Lodge beckons
Enjoying a breakfast we had no need to hunt for
Copyright© April 2013—Kim van Breda
Categories:
woollen, environment,
Form:
Free verse
When the woollen industry died,
the reservoir that fed the old mill,
became disused.
The water meadow at its head
became a swamp.
Developers,
who want to build houses everywhere,
take one look at the quagmire,
sniff the stench fouled air, and walk away.
The channels are long blocked.
The drains are long broken.
So a freed, unmanaged, unmanacled nature;
binges on the anarchy of liberation,
brewing a brackish broth of sweet stagnation.
Children are warned to stay away
from the deadly, dangerous, disease
ridden slough.
Lest the Knucker Dragon, swamp devil,
swallow them whole.
Bulrushes,
point brown accusing fingers to the sky,
blaming the heavens for their
muddied becoming and placement.
Blood worm larvae,
orphaned Fly Nymphs,
ravenous in the root and stem of grasses;
greedily gorge without discrimination,
where cannibal repast; is often a relation.
Herons, are shadows that pass over,
heading for the cleaner waters below.
Snipe scutter
in the soft mire, poking for grubs.
Busily burying beaks in the
flowering Bogbean, and Hogweed:
Yellow Flag Iris,
and Ragged Robin,
rampantly roar a rich cacophony of colour.
Beady eyed, scruffy small,
fat water vole.
Mining leerdammer labyrinths in the banks,
faring fine on favoured vegetation,
prosperously multiply in stinking habitation.
Categories:
woollen, environment, nature, pollution, water,
Form:
Rhyme
Did you ever see a cow with a green eyebrow
Wow! Hope you sought some help
Did you ever see a llama, wearing pink pyjamas
Something more serious has developed
Did you ever see a fly with a polka dot tie
You're really need to visit a shrink
How about a turtle wearing a form fitting girdle
That would certainly make you blink
Did you ever see a bee with a sunburned knee
Should have used more suntan lotion
How about a bear with pink and green underwear
Surely that would cause a commotion
Did you ever see a spider drinking apple cider
How about a bear combing his hair
Or how about a kitten wearing woollen mittens
Or a horse fast asleep on a chair
You may think I've been smoking some funny stuff
But believe me that isn't the case
Actually I see many things that others don't see
Think I might be from outer space
© Jack Ellison 2014
Categories:
woollen, humor,
Form:
Quatrain
In days of old when knights were bold and dungeons were dug deep
Widely renowned back then was found, a race of hero sheep
These sheep were strong, these sheep were tough,
these sheep were eight feet tallAnd lots of very useful stuff was knitted from their wool
The wool was strong, and woven long to any length was able
To out perform the tensile strength of any modern cable
While nimble hands, pulled finer strands from out that noble flock
Which taut, sufficed to cleanly slice deep through the toughest rock
Those sheep were prized, and many wise men kept their woolly kind
Twas said the bleating of those sheep would stimulate the mind
The wonders that those sheepies wrought, would fill a hundred lists
And fueled a boom for work by loom and wool technologists
They found that wool, if tightly bound would not only float
But closely weaved and interleaved, could make a woolly boat
While natural grease, gleaned from that fleece, if applied just right
Succeeded to fulfil the need to make it watertight.
So woolly fleets sailed ancient seas, to ply the trade in wool
Till pirates knitted cannons, to fire woollen cannonballs
And so, therefore, a woolly war broke out throughout the world
The war was short, but keenly fought where woollen sails unfurled
The brief wool war had one deep flaw, though everyone was willing
For woolly blades, however made, are little use for killing.
This one defect completely wrecked the wool age upward trend
And so the golden age of wool came to a sudden end.
Categories:
woollen, age, fantasy, war,
Form:
Rhyme
I lay on the dry silken grass.
Tall thin reeds hide the sun,
but not the deep blue sky.
I watch the woollen clouds
chasing each other,
feel the soothing breeze,
listen to where the waters meet.
The river flows, a soothing strain,
sonority unrestrained.
Lethargy grips my soul.
I am loathe to move,
I lay supine, quiescent
like a stick in the mud.
Forget the week's travails.
Little did I dream that
just round the bend
you too were resting all alone.
We could have met,
and lay together, hearts entwined.
Would you have crowned my bliss?
Where you really there?
At last I wake and walk around the bend,
only to find that you were gone.
Categories:
woollen, lost love,
Form:
Free verse
Wintertime, and the snow is now falling.
Trees are bare, and the wind blows through them
Holes in the cabin, and we feel like its freezing.
Dad must bring some good warmth to all of us.
Drag in some thick logs, and the fireplace is ready.
Then, we’ll surely find plenty warm woollen clothes.
Look, sweet child, the lake is all thick and icy.
Let's go skating and we'll enjoy all this day.
(NB Whether I succeeded or not I leave this to your judgement. I tried to write a poem on wintertime using the famous song Summertime. I apologized if I failed.)
Categories:
woollen, winter,
Form:
Lyric
Clouds garland snow capped mountain peak
Icy snow butterflies melt kisses upon my nose
Puffs of warm, moist breath balloons billow out before me,
quickly chilling, disappearing before my eyes
Crunching snow compacts beneath booted feet
Prints set deep, little more than momentary reminder
of where you have stepped before
Crisp white blanket glints
almost winking it’s Christmas card welcome
as it’s vast white carpet spreads before you beckoning
All of nature along with everything manmade becomes anew
Nothing seems out of place
A bird lands on branch of tree causing cascade of padded canopy
New mound takes position with little noticed effect on perfect landscape
Children laugh and run as they hurl packed balls at one another
Dashing, darting, ducking and returning rogue ammunition
to offending hand and screams of pleasure
Slipping, falling they tumble over repeatedly
Waving arms and legs, when finally still to create snow angels
Then, standing up clothed as abominable snowman
Giving rise to fresh ideas as new creation begins with rolling snow
Bigger and bigger they chase and push, packing tight as they go
Another ball a little smaller to place on top of first for head
Then off they scatter in all directions looking to clothe their model
Returning with woollen hat scarf
carrot and stones to place as eyes nose and mouth with button features
Admiring they know their masterpiece shall be short-lived
For mother nature’s hand will chance to create another slushy muddy puddle
Categories:
woollen, adventure, childhood, fantasy, children,
Form:
Free verse